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William Corner Clarke

Kabbala of the Highway

In the traffic jamOn one of Moses'Baking highwaysStuck between the Bronx and QueensA crack appearedIn the afternoonAnd magic began to riseShimmering above the asphalt

To pass away the timeWhile it was being repairedWe began scrying for numbersLooking for propheciesWe wrote down the digitsOf the licence platesOf every third blue carAnd converted them into lettersImagining thatThe infinite names of GodMight be writtenOn the backs of dust coveredChevy's and Fords

Lights changedWe inched forwardSome lanes moving faster than othersWe seemed to be on the pointOf discoveringA divine sentenceBut before we could putThe words in orderOur thoughts betrayed usWe just could not keepFrom looking throughThe rear view mirrorOr turning our headsTo the side of the road

You behind the wheelAsh from your cigaretteFalling on your summer dressMyself, light headedAfter drinking too much the night beforeTrying to concentrateFor more than a momentAnd failing every time

The day passed onIn discrete lengths of automobilesThen, suddenlyThe enchantment was brokenWe found ourselvesMoving at speed across the bridgeOut of the wastelandOf gravel, gasoline and ravensForgettingOur childish game